


Noli Me Tangere

by ladyofrosefire



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Flirting, Gifts, Multi, Napoleon has Issues, Polyamory, Pre-Relationship, Theft, alcohol mention, although it's kind of strange flirting, friends don't enable friends, the smallest hints of D/s, which should surprise no one who knows my writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-07-12 12:05:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7102552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyofrosefire/pseuds/ladyofrosefire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Napoleon likes beautiful things. </p><p>No one who knows him feels any surprise at this, nor does he expect them to. And as long as none of them start poking into the why, he’s perfectly content to let them admire."</p><p>Or-- Napoleon has developed coping strategies, since leaving the army, and they are not the healthiest. He started lying on a grand scale even before that. After joining UNCLE, both the lies and the coping strategies stop working so well, and it might have something to do with his teammates. He has never done well with wanting things, or people, he cannot touch.</p><p>Title from "Whoso List to Hunt, I Know where is an Hind" By Sir Thomas Wyatt</p>
            </blockquote>





	Noli Me Tangere

Napoleon likes beautiful things.

 

No one who knows him feels any surprise at this, nor does he expect them to. And as long as none of them start poking into the _why_ , he’s perfectly content to let them admire.

 

Let them see the suit. Fine wool, silk, well-made buttons, Italian leather. Everything tailored to fit his body just so. The flash of a signet ring, the gleam and shift of expensive liquor in a cut-crystal glass. Another glint from a collar bar or a tie clip. Sparkle and silk and gleaming leather. He crafts that shell and pulls it in tight until it melds to his skin, gels his hair down to match it, and fixes a smile in place.

 

“You could have been in the pictures.”

It was what they told him in the army, a year in when he was seventeen going on twenty and still so baby-faced he could barely pull it off. That had been his first big lie, and the first time he realized how easy it could be. Show a man, a woman, anyone, what they want to see, something that sparkles just a little, something fine and cut from the right cloth, and they’ll all fall over themselves to believe in it. Wool and canvas, in this case, topped with a helmet and matched with the matte black of a gun.

 

He learns that if you don’t tell the WAAC she’s your first, just tell her you want her to tell you _exactly_ what she wants, and give her a little smirk, the one you’ve been practicing in your shaving mirror, it’ll all go down smooth as good scotch.

 

The drinking is easy. He’s Irish, and his parents work, so he’s had more than ample opportunity to get a bottle of something or other that could probably peel paint. It’s enough to let him keep perfect pace with the other soldiers in his unit.

 

And after, when they’re recovering all that artwork, he learns that beautiful things ease the memories even more completely than alcohol, and with fewer headaches in the morning. And he discovers his next great lie.

 

See the suit.

 

Don’t see the man.

 

The cloth changes-- the silk, the fine wool, the Italian leather, now. And this is where his name _shines_. Napoleon Solo had been a bad name for a soldier, since Waterloo was all people thought about, unless you were French. But for a fine man who liked fine things and moved in the highest circles, well.

 

That smirk turns sharper, sweeter, broader. The gap between silk and skin closes, bit by bit.

 

It’s not about the money. Ask anyone willing to think about how much never resurfaced after the CIA caught him-- barely-- and they’ll have to admit it. They call him greedy, unprincipled, ruthless, deadly, a scoundrel.

 

All true.

 

But it’s not money he wants. It’s the feeling of pearls sliding through his fingers, the way the light sinks into the paint of a master work, the shine and spark of emeralds and diamonds and sapphires.

 

He always sells the garnets, and the rubies.

 

And the thing is, yes, he steals from the Nazis. But he’s not so unprincipled that he will let himself profit off of dead innocents. Sure, he never actually saw half the horrors, but it’s all too easy to imagine gold ripped from someone’s teeth.

He kills for those pieces, and does not regret it.

He cannot track the families down without getting himself caught, and Napoleon’s never considered himself a Robin Hood, but that does not mean he does nothing.

 

At night, he sleeps best on silk, or at least on fine cotton, with someone soft and warm in his arms. He’s never been picky about gender.

 

He sleeps worse toward the end, when he feels the noose closing, catches one night where he thinks he’s home free, and then falls right into it.

 

Maybe that’s why he rips right into the Russian’s soft underside when he brings up Napoleon’s _leash_ , even though it’s not the leash that actually bothers him so much. What it makes him do, on the other hand-- He had tried to find a sort of beauty in efficiency and clean kills, in always keeping Sanders _just_ happy enough that the man wants to punch him, but can’t actually justify it on paper.

 

The smirk loses its sweetness somewhere in all that blood.

 

So he rips into Illya with practiced calm and watches his artless ally fly apart at a thousand fissures because sometimes breaking something beautiful helps, too.

 

He does see the beauty in Illya-- that strength, the aquamarine gleam of his eyes. He’s far from straight enough or unobservant enough to miss it. _Peril_ has a sweet face, and from what Napoleon felt of him, because you can’t see much through that damn turtleneck, he’s got the sort of body you can get lost exploring. But he looks at Napoleon and he sees, of course, the suit. He sees Western Decadence, capitals required, and corruption, and guards himself against it.

 

Napoleon thinks Illya could use a little corrupting, but nevermind that.

 

Gaby’s beauty is much easier to see, although he’s confident he did not let her know he noticed when he first met her. Maybe she thinks the coveralls and the mussed hair and the grease stains hide it. Maybe she thinks her snapping puts Napoleon off, when without it, he might want to put her in his pocket more than in his bed. Christ, but she has fire. Her beauty says “ _noli me tangere”_ even more than Illya’s, and he’s never done well with what he cannot touch.

 

Napoleon stopped respecting easily before he even joined the army, so it just figures that the first two people he _has_ respected in a long time end up pairing up.

 

It’s a little painful to watch. Illya bumbles. He had not bumbled after being shot or after Napoleon goaded him. But this firecracker of a woman turns him careful and clumsy all at once. He stands back as if expecting sparks, or a blow, or a kiss. Napoleon pushes him harder, because he likes the way flustered looks on Illya, and then exits to the balcony.

 

The leaving eats at him until it drives him to interrupt. They have ample opportunity to kiss in their hotel room. No need for them to do it in his.

 

Sometimes, he breaks beautiful things.

 

It all gets so much harder, afterwards. Lies don’t hold up under close, prolonged scrutiny, and that is what partners are: close, prolonged scrutiny. Napoleon draws his second skin in tighter. In Istanbul, he argues for Gaby and Illya staying together, which seems to suit them just fine, and then goes to… see the sights.

He steals a pair of earrings made of gold and pearl drops, and then sweet-talks his way into the bed of a woman with eyes he thinks he can drown himself in. Between her and the scotch, it almost works, and the lines she leaves on his back make his second skin feel that much closer the next day.

 

Illya sniffs, and Gaby rolls her eyes at him, and neither of them says anything. He does it again in Madrid-- finds a woman with full, soft hair and dark eyes, heavy with liner. Napoleon gets her under him, up on her hands and knees, and fucks her until he almost forgets his own name, and most definitely forgets hers.

 

He lifts a sapphire necklace off of a Marquisette in the Netherlands and slips out of the party before she notices its loss.

 

In Paris, he steals nothing, although he eyes the security in the Louvre out of habit as he leads Illya and Gaby to each of his favorite sites in turn. They admire the Hope Diamond while Napoleon tells them its story from as far back as he thinks they’ll allow, leaning between them from behind. He thinks, maybe, he sees Illya smiling. So he buys the Russian an ice cream, and would have stolen a white beret for Gaby, except she makes sure he catches her glaring at him. So he buys it instead, and then perches it on her head at a jaunty angle.

“So am I your favorite?”

Napoleon only laughs and resumes walking, Illya and Gaby arm-in-arm behind him.

 

Then they fly to Kiev, and all of them are jumping at shadows. Illya breaks his hand punching them out of a bad situation after they run out of bullets, and Gaby screams at both of them the whole way back to base, tears in her eyes. She kisses Illya when they get there, while Napoleon is still wrapping up his hand. He cannot quite stop himself from watching. Their mouths move together, soft, sweet, and searching, as if they can check one another for injuries just through that. He looks away as they pull apart and smoothes the edge of the plaster with his thumb.

“I’m going to sleep.” He stands and brushes his hands off on the legs of his stealth gear. “Don’t get any ideas about that hand, Peril. I won’t be able to do as good a job setting it a second time.”

 

He steals an emerald ring in Cairo.

 

In Uppsala, Napoleon finds a man with eyes like blue topaz and golden-blond hair. Fucks his mouth and pockets his onyx cufflinks as he’s helping him back out the door. Then he pours himself a glass of Akvavit, swirls it to catch the light, and then knocks it back in one swallow. It burns, and it’s bitter, and it makes him think of stealing licorice back when he was still a kid. Napoleon’s mouth twists. It’s easier if you don’t think about that sort of thing. He drinks another glass, this time more slowly, because there’s nothing else of interest in the hotel’s selection, and then goes to sleep.

 

In Copenhagen, Gaby takes her first turn as the honeypot. If Illya had it his way, it would be her only turn, but Gaby smoothes his feathers with a comment so brusque Napoleon barely realizes it’s a compliment, and settles herself proprietarily in Illya’s lap while he plays his evening game of chess against himself.

They all have separate rooms, but since their covers know one another, it’s not too odd for them to see each other and discuss the case. Napoleon walks Gaby back to hers, and then spends most of the night tossing and turning before he ends up on his stomach, with the blankets in a tangle around him. Illya would chide him for sleeping in a position he cannot rise from quickly.

 

The cufflinks come up again Vienna, when they are searching for an assassin whose target is one of the diplomats meant to attend a convention. They have to blend in-- _all_ of them, since the crowd and the venue are both large. Waverly had succeeded in bullying Illya into getting fitted for a suit, which Napoleon had enjoyed far more than the Russian. He’d lounged in a convenient armchair, ankle propped on the opposite knee, offering commentary on the fittings. Illya had stood in silent boredom and irritation until Napoleon suggested making the trousers a little more fitted.

His response had been a dry look, a very descriptive gesture, and “There is not so much to take in, Cowboy.”

Well, he hadn’t been about to get a better invitation to look than that.

“No, I suppose there isn’t.”

Wearing the suit now, Illya’s discomfort shows in every long, long line of his body. Over and over, he tugs at the sleeves, and then snarls quietly. He catches himself before Napoleon starts to worry about him ripping the sleeve off his very expensive suit. While Napoleon wears his as a second skin, Illya treats it like a straitjacket. He tugs at the collar and fumbles with the cuffs, and Napoleon feels his mouth tug, just slightly.

“Let me.” He says, and reaches up before Illya can formulate a response.

He straightens the collar with a practiced gesture, and then takes the silver-plated cufflinks out of Illya’s large hand. Gun calluses, scars from knives-- he’s felt them before, but Napoleon registers them again as he draws his hand away. He resists the urge to clear his throat, and then hooks the onyx set out of his own pocket with two fingers, thumb to the outside on reflex.

Illya’s eyes follow the path of Napoleon’s hand, and then seizes on the contents. “Cowboy.”

He cannot quite tell if Illya sounds more disapproving-- the cufflinks are obviously stolen-- or amused. Napoleon fits them in place anyway, and then gives his partner a once-over that is not as quick as it ought to be. It catches on aquamarine blue eyes and strong hands, and on the scar on one temple.

Napoleon collects himself and offers one of his conspiratorial smirks, congratulating them both on a job well done.

“There. Now the suit’s not wearing you.” He claps Illya on the shoulder as he goes to help Gaby with her tracker. “You’ll do fine, Peril.”

           

Waverly glares at him as he mentions that the Polish ambassador’s wife had… lost an antique diamond brooch at the convention. When Napoleon fails to so much as blink funny, he sighs and wanders off, muttering to himself.

 

In San Marino, Gaby and Napoleon play lovers on holiday, which means he sees her in her flannel pajamas at night, and in a red dress that makes _his_ head snap around the evening they go out to meet their mark. It leaves her midriff bare, and the gold accents draw his eyes right back to that expanse of skin despite all his best efforts.

“If Peril sees you in that, he might break my hand.” Napoleon observes as dryly as he can.

Gaby responds with an expansive eyeroll. “He knows better.” She informs him, and then shoves the last pin into her hair.

Again, Napoleon’s eyes drop to her bare stomach. Her skin looks soft and warm, and he can see how his hands would fit around her waist.

He stands quickly enough to make her turn, sharp and wide-eyed, only to relax a moment later.

“Sorry. Just getting something.” Napoleon reassures her and slips a hand into the pocket he’s made in the lining of his suitcase.

He does not carry much that he does not need, no matter what Illya says to the contrary, but he always carries something for emergencies. And something beautiful. Occasionally several somethings. It’s why he’s been stealing more jewelry than artwork, lately.

Napoleon pulls out the pearl chandelier earrings he stole in Istanbul and palms them before Gaby can see.

“Close your eyes.”

She gives him a _look_ , and then complies.

He does not let himself linger as he threads the earrings through the piercing in each lobe, although a voice in the back of his mind argues that it is a moot point. He will have his hand on her waist, which her dress does not actually _cover_ , all night. But he steps back as soon as he finishes, anyway.

Gaby looks in the mirror without needing to be prompted. “They’re beautiful.” She meets his eyes in the reflection. “Whose are they?”

“Yours.” Napoleon replies.

Her eyeroll this time is almost fond.

The earrings sparkle almost enough to keep him from glancing down.

 

Napoleon knows what his file says. Of course he knows. He stole and read the entire thing, twice. First from Sanders, and then from Waverly. _Waverly_ had gotten his age right, but as long as Illya and Gaby don’t know he lied in order to join the US Army, that’s fine.

The file contains other things, too. His habit of gambling, of stealing, of fucking a different woman every night if he gets an opportunity. They don’t know that not all of the people in his bed have been women. He knows the term “control disorder”, and the rest of the things attached to it. He knows he is not entirely in kilter. But he’ll be damned if he’s going to talk to some shrink and get himself--

Shocked.

Again.

 

Not a goddamn chance.

 

Let them see the suit. They won’t see the man.

 

He steals three things from their mark’s office. A small painting of the view from one of San Marino’s towers with no monetary value, but that’s transportable and surprisingly well done. Every scrap of THRUSH research he can lay his hands on. And an opal and canary diamond brooch that resembles a sunburst. The painting goes into a small tube, and then into his suitcase. The brooch goes into the bag the earrings had been in, and then into the small pocket in the lining. The documents go to Waverly.

Gaby keeps the earrings.

 

They’re in Casablanca when Napoleon realizes what exactly he’s been doing.

Illya has been rolling his eyes at him every few minutes, because Napoleon’s been muttering _Casablanca_ quotes under his breath every time one pops into his head. Mostly because it makes Illya rolls his eyes. It would all be less fun if he did not know for a fact that Illya had both seen and enjoyed the movie.

Gaby walks ahead of them, swinging her purse and ignoring them as she tries to keep the wind from whipping her hair out of its ponytail. Her skirt flickers around her legs. He looks away, sees a display of scarves in front of an opulent storefront, and hooks one off of the rack on reflex. No one sees, no one stops him, no one notices. Napoleon folds the silk up in his hands until they’re a few streets away, and then shakes it back out.

Illya, again, rolls his eyes. “You cannot help yourself, can you, cowboy?”

He really can’t, half the time, but there’s no reason to tell Peril that. Instead, he steps smoothly around in front of Gaby, who gives him an indulgent smile. Then she whisks the scarf out of his hands and ties it over her hair. His fingers tingle slightly. Itch.

He smiles, bright and sharp, and, in his best Humphrey Bogart impression, says, “Here's looking at you, kid.”

“Thank you, Napoleon. Now go back and pay for it.”

Behind her, Illya rolls his eyes so hard Napoleon’s pretty sure he strained something.

He continues walking backwards in front of her, his hands in his pockets. “And how am I supposed to do that?”

“Figure it out. Illya and I will wait.”

God help him, he actually goes back.

 

They get a break, after that. Long deserved, in his opinion. Illya and Gaby come with him to New York. Gaby because she wants to see the buildings and Broadway. Illya because he doesn’t want to leave Gaby, and also because he doesn’t really have somewhere else to go. They wander the city while he gets his things moved from the apartment he’d had while he worked for the CIA to a nicer one, now that he has access to greater resources. Most of his belongings are already packed in some way or another, so at least it’s not complicated. Maybe he should move some lesser-known piece of art here to liven the place up a bit.

Napoleon, of course, finds the landscape when he’s unpacking his suitcase. He doesn’t have a frame, so he just puts it between a couple heavy books-- a book on art history and a German dictionary-- to flatten out.

He meets them outside the theater half an hour before the show is supposed to start. Illya wears the onyx cufflinks and the suit from Vienna. Gaby wears white, the silk scarf knotted around her neck. Her earrings are yellow and white plastic.

Napoleon’s mouth gives a minute twitch. As he passes a window, he glances over and reaches a hand up to smooth back his hair.

 

After, there are crinkles pressed into his sleeve from every time Gaby grabbed his arm in excitement during the performance. Illya is smiling at her, one of his arms hooked through Gaby’s. She slips her free arm through Napoleon’s.

 

_Noli me tangere, noli me tangere, noli me tangere._

 

She is not his to touch.

His fingers itch again, and he starts to turn his head.

“Napoleon, my hand’s cold.” Gaby’s voice holds a note of command, and the soldier still in him cannot help but answer. His hand covers hers. “Danke.”

“Where are we going, cowboy?” Illya asks. He neither looks nor sounds like he plans on detaching either of Napoleon’s hands.

“I was thinking my place, for dinner?”

“He cooks.” Gaby explains, and Illya breathes a laugh.

 

He does cook-- no truffles, since Gaby does not like them. His jacket hangs over the back of a chair as he stirs, his sleeves rolled up, an apron on to protect his vest. The heat from the pot melts some of the gel in his hair, and a few curls fall forward into his face. Napoleon smoothes them back, only to have them fall forward thanks to the steam that billows up when he drains the pasta.

Napoleon sets the plates on the table, pours the wine, and then whisks the apron off.

Illya takes a bite, and then hums audibly. “Is good. More… Italian than American.”

“You’re in New York.” Napoleon replies. “And they have good food.”

 

After dinner, Gaby turns on the radio, kicks off her shoes, and dances around in the new apartment, careless and loose-limbed. It’s more endearing than alluring, but Napoleon watches anyway, his eyes lingering on her legs. She’s taken off the scarf, but those horrible earrings swing as she dances, highlighting the line of her neck.

Napoleon drinks the last of his wine a little too quickly.

His brow furrows a moment later as Gaby reaches up and unhooks first one earring, and then the other. Slowly, she makes her way back toward the table. She sets the earrings on the table. Then she slides smoothly, with all her ballerina’s grace, into his lap.

 

_Noli me tangere, noli me tangere, noli me tangere--_

 

It’s like a drumbeat in his head.

 

“Gaby…” His hands clench white-knuckled on the arms of the chair.

“Have we been reading you wrong?”

He starts to compose his face into a mask of confusion and Illya _snorts_. “Cowboy. We are all better spies than that. And you are not so subtle.”

Gaby is inching down the knot on his tie and it’s-- very distracting. He does not move his hands from the arms of the chair.

She takes his face in her hands and turns it back toward her. His eyes flick down to her mouth, and then back to her eyes.

“You’re both sure about this?” His hands curve around her slim hips.

Goddamn, she’s warm.

 

He kisses her, his tongue slipping past her lips. She rakes her hands back through his hair and presses up against him, chest to chest. There’s a little less to her than most of the women he chooses, but she fits against him--

Illya’s hand curves around his shoulder and Napoleon jumps, his heart pounding a little harder.

“Solo. If I were going to stab you, I would not have warned you first.”

“Good to know.” He replies, tilting his head back so he can look up, up, up into Illya’s face.

Fuck, those eyes are beautiful.

Gaby bites the side of his neck. “I want him out of this suit, Illya.”

His tie lands somewhere, and Napoleon gives her a look. “...That wasn’t exactly inexpensive, Gaby.”

“So iron it.”

He grabs her hands when she goes for his shirt and his lips draw into a thin smile. “Let me.”

She climbs off of him again with a roll of her eyes, and then slips around the chair to slide into Illya’s space. Napoleon watches them as he unbuttons his shirt and vest.

Illya scoops her up into his arms, one hand supporting one of her thighs, and the other on her back, pressing her against him. Gaby kisses him like she means to devour him, her hands raking through honey-gold hair. Her dress has ridden up, and Napoleon can see how her thighs flex around Illya’s waist. He watches Illya’s large, clever hands as he catches the zipper on Gaby’s dress and draws it down, revealing smooth skin and the fact that she is not wearing a bra. Her hands tug at Illya’s shirt, yanking the buttons open quickly enough that Napoleon expects them to pop off.

Napoleon steps forward when he sees that Illya’s forgotten the cufflinks and gotten his shirt caught around his wrists. He’s dropped his own cufflinks into his trouser pocket, and his shirt hangs open. Gaby’s hand brushes the fabric aside once he comes within reach. Her callused hand-- from wrenches, not guns-- brushes down his chest and stomach. He kisses Illya because Gaby has stopped and the day he can’t undo cufflinks and kiss someone is the day he stops calling himself a master thief. He hears Illya’s shirt crumple to the floor at their feet. Gaby gives his a rather pointed tug, and Napoleon shifts back a half step. His shirt ends up over the back of the same chair as his vest. Then he bends to remove his shoes and socks.

When he gets to the bedroom, Illya and Gaby are already there, on top of the comforter, Gaby on top. Her dress rests in a crumpled heap on the floor.

“Damn…” He breathes, leaning against the doorframe for a moment.

They both look over at him, and Gaby beckons. “Well? What are you waiting for?”

He chuckles quietly, and then joins them.

“Your bed is absurd.” Illya tells him as he pulls him down.

“Big enough for all of us.” Napoleon replies as he tries and fails to keep Illya on his back.

He ends up pinned, gently, with one of Illya’s thighs pressed up against the hardening line of his cock. And well, fuck, it’s even better than he’s imagined. He has his hands free, so he curls one around the back of Illya’s neck and kisses him with everything he’s got, tongue and the brush of his teeth against Illya’s lower lip. When he pulls back, those aquamarine eyes are foggy and dark, and his mouth is reddened.

“... _охуеть_ ” Illya blinks a few times.

Gaby hums in agreement, and both of them turn to look. Above him, Illya swears again, so quietly Napoleon barely hears it. She has a hand tucked inside the lace of her panties, fingers-- well he can’t see what her fingers are doing, exactly, and that’s a problem.

Taking advantage of Illya’s distraction, Napoleon pushes himself out from underneath him and reaches out to hook either index finger under the high, elastic waist. Then he draws her underwear down and off of her hips. He cannot prevent there being something a little reverential in the gesture, but the smirk probably offsets it enough.

She bites his lower lip when she kisses him and threads her free hand back into his hair. When she pulls, he cannot stop the groan that rises from his chest. In retaliation-- and he’d thought _Illya_ was combative-- he slides down to kiss her breasts. His lungs fill with her warmth and the scent of her soap and perfume, undercut by the sheen of clean sweat starting to gather on her skin.

“Bite. A little.” Illya tells him as he reaches around to undo Napoleon’s belt, chest against his back.

He rolls his eyes, and then presses his ass back against Illya’s cock. He gets two very useful things out of that. A very undignified choking sound, and the knowledge that there really was _not_ room to take in those pants any more.

“Fuck.” Napoleon mutters, and then bites gently at Gaby’s nipple.

She tugs his hair again. “Harder.”

“Your wish…” He drawls, and bears his teeth against her skin.

Gaby pushes him away after a while, her chest rising and falling with her quickened breath. Her nipples stand out more, now, slightly reddened. She smiles over his shoulder at Illya and brushes her hair back from her face.

“Enjoying the show, _Süßer_?” She asks, running her hand more gently though Napoleon’s hair.

“ _Да_.” He catches Napoleon’s eye, and his mouth quirks a little higher at one corner. “Is that all you’ve got? If anyone is going to fuck her, you have to do better. _Gaby наш небельщая._ ”

Gaby whips the pillow out from behind her head and narrowly misses Illya’s face with it. “I _can_ understand you.”

“Is true.” He moves up and tucks her against his side. “Small and strong.”

Napoleon laughs softly and slides a little farther down, kissing her stomach. “Does this mean I should stop?”

Gaby sighs, replaces the pillow behind her head, and shifts a little higher on them. “I hate you both.” Then she looks at Napoleon. “Pants off.”

He grins, and then sits back. He can iron his slacks later. They end up on the floor with Gaby’s dress and his boxers. Illya strips his off, as well, and Napoleon has to take a moment at the sight of them curled together, no fabric interrupting the lines of their bodies, even as they admire him. Gaby has only begun to collect scars anywhere other than her hands. Illya’s skin bears marks of varying ages. Napoleon’s gaze snags on each one on the way down.

He swallows hard as Illya’s hands come up. They look absurdly large against Gaby’s small frame, one spanning her lower back, and the other between them, thumb rubbing over a reddened nipple. She twists, laughs, and then turns herself in his arms so she leans against his chest. She tilts her head back so they can continue kissing. It seems as if they have lost themselves in this, drowned in one another. It makes something clench uncomfortably in Napoleon’s chest.

Briefly, he remembers pretty, pretty Rose, both of them coltish and too young, but with their eagerness in the open and their hearts on their sleeves, and his mouth tries to twist. Napoleon rakes a hand back through his hair.

Then Illya breaks the kiss and reaches out to take him by the wrist. He has no leverage at that angle, but Napoleon goes anyway, kissing first him, and then Gaby, and groaning against her mouth as she gets a clever hand down to wrap around his cock and squeeze. He slides down, kissing her chest lightly, and then her stomach and hips. Illya’s hand rests heavy on the back of his neck, calloused and warm. Gaby’s fingers curl into his hair even before she drapes her legs over his shoulders.

This, he can do.

He parts both her soft, dark curls and her labia with thumb and forefinger and licks lazily, exploring, tasting, until Gaby yanks on his hair-- although not unkindly. Her thighs close around his head when he sucks on her clit. Napoleon can still hear her breathless curses. He can feel the trembling in her legs as he pushes her closer and closer to the edge of orgasm.

There is art to this, and Napoleon has always loved beautiful things.

He pulls away for a moment, just before she would have come, and chuckles into the soft skin of her thigh while she curses him, laughing. She’s more vocal than he had expected. When he rubs his cheek, rough with evening stubble, against her skin, she sighs and presses her hips up. Then she tugs his mouth back to her.

Illya’s murmuring-- something, his voice low and indistinct, his accent heavy enough to obscure what small part of his words make it down to Napoleon. But whatever he says, Gaby agrees with it.

He finds he’s grinning against her as he brings her back to the edge, making her shake and tremble between him and Illya. For all her earlier noise, she comes silently, her back arching and her legs clamping around Napoleon’s ears until he thinks she might end up breaking his neck. When she releases him, they are both panting.

“Good?” Illya asks her, and Gaby nods, her eyes closed.

“Did you doubt me?” Napoleon chuckles quietly, and stretches out in the open part of the mattress, doing his best to ignore the insistent ache in his cock. “Your turn, Peril?” He asks. “Or mine?”

Gaby _grins_ , tipping her head back to look at Illya, and Napoleon feels a rush down his spine. When she looks like that, he’s not sure if he’s glad or not that whatever she’s planning isn’t going to happen to him. Illya seems to be having more or less the same thought, but he catches Gaby’s hips as she settles astride him and sits up, a small smile on his lips.

She must be on the pill (he doesn’t snoop through their bags anymore), because she does not so much as ask about condoms before she reaches between them and guides Illya’s cock into her. She sinks down slowly, with little gasps and rolls of her hips. For a moment, she holds perfectly still, cradling Illya’s face in her hands, his fingers pressing into her skin. Napoleon watches as she begins to move-- the way their mouths slide together, how her hair sticks to her forehead, the way Illya tries not to grip too tight. Unconsciously, his hand drifts to his cock.

He does not need to touch them, no matter how much he wants to.

But Illya looks over at him, his blue eyes darkened, and catches Napoleon by the wrist again. Their mouths come together, and it’s every bit as languid as the way Gaby’s riding Illya. She uses his neck to muffle her moans, and then braces a hand on his shoulder as she increases her pace. He wraps an arm around her to brace her, and then turns to kiss Gaby instead. Illya takes the opportunity to get a hand between them, his thumb against Gaby’s clit. Napoleon feels her jump and more of her weight falls against his arm. A moment later, he has to tip his head back and pant as Illya’s hand, wet from touching Gaby, although not as much as Napoleon would like, closes around his cock and strokes. The angle has to be hell on Illya’s wrist, but if it is, he shows no sign of it.

Gaby’s rhythm changes again, more grinding now as she pushes herself toward orgasm. Her breasts press flush against Illya’s chest, and her free hand slips in his hair. Illya comes first, but only by a second. Napoleon keeps his arm around her to help her stay upright.

Once she’s gotten her breath back, she raises her head, looking between Napoleon and Illya.

“Hold him.”

 

What?

 

Illya catches him surprisingly quickly for a man who’s just gotten off, and very, very firmly. He pulls Napoleon’s arms behind his back and holds them with both hands.

“If you don’t want me to move, you could just say.” Napoleon comments, aiming for something that doesn’t betray the breathless rush of arousal that’s shot through him.

Illya slackens his hold for a moment in a silent invitation that he pretends not to notice.

Gaby does, of course. She settles astride his lap lazily, and then smoothes her fingers through his hair again. “This suits you.” She informs him, and then gives his freed curls another soft tug to illustrate her point.

One of his eyebrows arches.

She smiles at him knowingly before she snags the jar of Vaseline from the nightstand drawer. He pants against her mouth as she jerks him off, breathing encouragement in a voice he cannot stop from regaining some of its old New York drawl around the ‘a’s. When he comes, he twists to catch Illya’s mouth in a kiss. It muffles his groan, and Illya provides the perfect support against which to go limp, afterwards.

 

A few minutes later, he slips out of the bed and into the adjoining bathroom. Napoleon cleans up and gets them a couple washcloths out of the box while Illya and Gaby enjoy each other and his very soft sheets. Then he slides back into bed. Illya just throws his washcloth over the back of his neck and stretches out further on the bed.

“We were hoping we might get to see the real you.”

Napoleon raises an eyebrow at Gaby, who is busy cleaning Illya’s come off of her thighs. Then he sighs and drags a hand over his face.

Wonderful.

“Gaby…” he sighs.

Illya lifts his head and _glares_. “Do not tell us this meant nothing.”

His accent, Napoleon notes, is even thicker when he’s relaxed.

“Oh, no, it was quite something.” He grins, ignores the way that glare sharpens, and continues. “Listen to me, Peril. I’m not doing this lightly.”

“Could have fooled me…”

“I just hope you two know what you’re asking for.”

Gaby drops the cloth onto the floor-- hopefully not onto his pants-- and turns, utterly un-shy of her nudity. She looks at him seriously, her mouth a thin, tight line. “What do you think we don’t get?”

“This,” He gestures first at himself, and then around them, “Is the _real me_.” Napoleon rolls his eyes expansively. “It has been since I was… Well it doesn’t matter, exactly.”

“It does to us.”

God help him, Gaby looks _hurt_.

Illya just looks pensive, now. “When was first time you lied? Not small lie. One lie, to many people, for long time.”

He inhales slowly.

Pauses and rubs the Janus face on his signet ring with the thumb of the other hand.

“Sixteen.” He exhales, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. “When I enlisted.”

“You were _eighteen_.” Illya insists, but Napoleon does not have to look at him to know there’s a furrow between his brows.

Napoleon just laughs, and shit, does it sound as empty of mirth to them?

For a moment, no one says anything.

“Well.” Gaby shoves Illya over gently, and then wiggles in on his other side. “That’s a start.”

“A start.” Napoleon turns onto his side, but she’s not facing him, and Illya blocks his view, anyway.

“You told the truth.” She reaches over and turns off the bedside lamp. “Now shut up _\--_ _schlafen wir_.”

They’re all on European time, still, so they’re only too happy to relax into Napoleon’s bed and draw the soft sheets up over them.

Still, he cannot help but think she’s using sleep as a way to give him an easy out from his conversation. Which he does appreciate.

Illya chuckles and tucks an arm around Gaby, kissing her hair. “She is not giving up.” He rumbles in the dark. “Neither am I.”

“Fucking fantastic.” Napoleon mutters.

“ _Schlaf_!” This time, she sounds tired.

He reaches over to smooth Gaby’s hair. “Alright. My turn with you in the morning.”

“We will see.” Illya retorts, and then chuckles as Gaby jabs him with an elbow. “ _Да_ , fine, we let you rest. Good night, little chop shop girl.”

 

Gaby falls asleep first, and then Illya. Napoleon breathes as if asleep, in case one or both of them is also only pretending, and thinks.

The suit’s never gotten in the way before. But then, he’s never fucked someone who really knew him before. Never someone he wanted to keep around, much less a pair of more than capable spies. The problem is, he hasn’t simply hidden the Irish-American kid who signed up to fight for his country. He’s buried him.

Seven years in the army, six years running, almost five with the CIA, and now UNCLE. No one stays the same through all of that. But in the dark, with Illya’s bulk at his side and matching, even sets of breath filling the silence, he’s just brave enough to admit that he’s burying another him, too.

He doesn’t have to keep Sanders happy anymore. He doesn’t have a handler. He has partners he can care about without them turning that into a weapon against him. God knows the two of them care about each other openly enough. God knows he cares about them. The cufflinks, the earrings, and the necklace sitting in a black velvet box, just waiting for the right opportunity all tell him that. Illya’s watch reflects the thin beam of light that has made its way through Napoleon’s heavy curtains.

 

Where does the suit end, and the man begin?

 

With a sigh, Napoleon wraps an arm around Illya and curls his hand around the man’s wrist, over the watch.

 

What will he find if he pulls them apart?

 

Illya leans back against him, just a little, and Gaby, in her sleep or not, catches Napoleon’s fingers with hers. In his chest, something loosens just an iota.

In the dark, Napoleon smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> Things Napoleon Stole Because He Cannot Deal With His Feelings Like an Adult:
> 
>  
> 
> [Pearl Earrings](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/3d/0b/86/3d0b860706e4c19c736d14c502ccc144.jpg)  
> [Emerald Ring](http://www.faycullen.com/_pics/800/c131r9ed/1.jpg)  
> [Sapphire Necklace](http://borsheimsbrk.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/0501.jpg)  
> [Cufflinks](http://static.kjbeckett.com/media/extendware/ewimageopt/media/inline/fe/0/david-van-hagen-gold-plated-onyx-square-cufflinks-black-gold-639.jpg)  
> [Diamond Brooch](https://a.1stdibscdn.com/archivesE/upload/1701400/j_15306131462212341232/A4906_diamond_crescent_brooch_org_z.jpg)  
> [Opal and Diamond Brooch](https://cdn.incollect.com/sites/default/files/medium/-Buccellati-Australian-Opal-Canary-White-Diamond-Brooch-by-Buccellati-Circa-1960s-138148-101245.JPG)  
> [Silk Scarf](https://a.1stdibscdn.com/archivesE/upload/v_348/01_14/org_img_2093/ORG_IMG_2093-1.jpeg)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Yes, I know his inability to just. Deal with his feelings is not actually funny. Kleptomania tends to arise from Other Things. Liiiiiiiiike things that happen when you throw a teenager into a war zone. Let a girl have her humor shields. He was supposed to be the one that didn’t rip my heart out and stomp on it.  
> Fuck you, Henry Cavill. Fuck you and your talented, pretty face.
> 
> ALSO. FUCK THE 60s. Sexual revolution my ass. There was apparently nothing specifically meant as a sexual lubricant that you could get without a prescription?? WTF
> 
> Napoleon’s probably using something like “Groom and Clean” tbh. Now if only I could figure out how the heck to embed an image or a link... They don't work right, yet, so you'll have to copy-paste. If anyone knows how to do this properly, please let me know. Google was not helpful.
> 
> Thank you to zombeesknees and all others who beta'd!


End file.
